


Season 2, Episode 3

by Mozart (BlondeMelancholic)



Category: Batman v Superman: Dawn of Justice, DC Cinematic Universe
Genre: Age Difference, Birthday Presents, Birthday Sex, Daddy Kink, F/M, Fluff and Smut, Jealousy, Love Bites, Marking, OR IS IT, Orgasm Delay/Denial, POV Second Person, Pettiness, Porn With Plot, Public Sex, Reader-Insert, Semi-Public Sex, Shameless Smut, Simultaneous Orgasm, Teasing, Vaginal Sex, also i don't care if this is ooc i'm old and salty, damn i can't understand these tags, eventually, garbage, holy fuck i only wish i could use that birthday spanking tag, i mean it's there.... kind of, warning: petty bruce
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-26
Updated: 2016-10-26
Packaged: 2018-08-27 06:18:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,707
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8390476
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlondeMelancholic/pseuds/Mozart
Summary: It's your birthday, and you're in a difficult position. A present for Angela, part I.





	

**Author's Note:**

> so here's some trash fic pwop idk-if-it's-ooc-i'm-old for my most favorite penpal in the world. goes to show that writing me letters nets you nearly 16k in smut [joke] [i love you though]
> 
> for any of you anticipating something completely incredible for my return to bruce wayne smut, here's your proof that i am A Massive Disappointment. angela knows that i am disappointing, given that i finished this fic..... some time after her actual birthday, but she is still somehow friends with me, which is why she's presh. here's to you babu
> 
> i titled the last pair of fics with tessa thompson songs and decided to go glass animals this round because their new album dropped as i was writing this [sob]. glass animals, or as i've heard them described, "alt-j if they stopped masturbating and actually got laid"
> 
> warning: pettiness ahead

You know that there must be hundreds, perhaps thousands of people who would kill you to be in your position right now. But if you could, you’d assure them that there’s no need to go to such trouble, because at the moment, you have the strong urge to will yourself into imploding at a molecular level. But you can’t. Because that will mean ruining a dress that you’re sure is worth more than the cost of your college tuition.  
Though you’re proud at how well you’re doing, how calm you appear outwardly. Because it’s all a rush of stimuli right now: bright lights, clinking glasses, rustling fabric, plastered smiles. You feel like a feral child brought into civilization for the first time, everything too intense, too noisy. You’re not sure if you can make it without making a run for it, except you have an anchor attached to you, the umbilical of your diving bell. Yes – at least, through it all, you can feel your lover’s hand lazily attached to your waist, moving occasionally between locations that are higher or lower than what you expect prudent, even though he is accustomed to these events and how to present oneself at them.

Which is both a blessing and a curse. Because he may be your lifeline, but he’s also the sole reason you’re here at this hellish party. On your _birthday._ When you’d very much rather be home in front of the TV with a plate of your favorite dessert resting on your very content stomach. No one had to know that you had blown through a new show and within two days you were already on season two, episode three. On your birthday, people don’t bother you about things like that.

It had went like this: you had known that your lover had an obligation to be here at this party. Coincidentally, it’s also a birthday party, but for someone apparently richer than you, who occupied a higher social plane. Ordinarily it was the sort of thing he could get out of, but you insisted that he go, as even you’re not such a cavewoman that you would betray an RSVP. But he’s your lover, and he wanted to spend the day with you; couldn’t you come with him? To that, you had argued that he could always spend the morning with you and then go in the evening, but no, that wouldn’t do; you didn’t get to spend as much time with him as either of you ever wanted, joined at the hip in more ways than one, and it was imperative to him to apparently lock in all twenty-four hours with you. And you had reluctantly agreed, because how bad could it be?

So you’re his date. His. Bruce’s. Bruce Wayne’s date. At a party. You’re Bruce Wayne’s date, at a party. 

Not that anyone else apparently fucking knows, because you’re certain that no one has looked at you since you’ve walked in. They all know Bruce, of course, but you’re some nobody, an interloper, a foreigner, the aforementioned feral child. He introduces you, of course, not mentioning your employment at your request, but they never look quite at you before, during, or after he does it. You don’t seem to be important or attractive enough to squirm into even the tiniest slot in their memory. Even the waiters seem to be looking past you, like you’re some kind of ghost. And since you’re in polite company, all you’re allowed to do is smile blandly as the conversation goes on over your head, the only solace the feel of Bruce’s hand against your waist. Earlier he was inches away from cupping your breast but he has moved back down again and he is now settled over the curve of your ass. You’re not sure if he’s merely ignoring polite company or if he is cognizant of your lack of existence among the elites, but either way, you’re enjoying it. He seems to be reassuring you, or at least promising you about sex later, even though he’s already fucked you silly earlier today. In the Batmobile, because you had asked so nicely.

“Maybe I just look really horrible,” you suggest with some dejection as he introduces you to the third person who doesn’t bother engaging with you at all. You wish that you’re someone different. He seems to have a thing for bad girls and you couldn’t even bring yourself to intentionally give someone wrong directions when you had the chance. Maybe you’d be more alluring if you were some slender cat burglar with sassy retorts, but to your disappointment, you seem to generally be a good and normal person who trails off when you look at his ass in jeans and who has yet to discover any superpowers, lest you go splashing off in some nuclear waste in an attempt to find some.

“Nonsense.” You’re right – the contact with you is a reassurance, because he gently rubs a hand up and down your waist, comforting you. “You look beautiful.”

“Well, of course you’d say that,” you scoff. “You bought this dress.” One of your birthday presents, part of an elaborate and expensive affair and you’re certain that if you sold it all you would have enough money to buy Sealand. 

Not that you would ever get rid of a thing, but doesn’t he know that it’s unnecessary? All you needed for a gift was his undivided attention for a day, and by that you mean sex on every piece of furniture in the house. And maybe a couple of rounds while he’s wearing one of his suits, and you don’t mean his YSL. …But at the same time, expensive gifts are _really_ nice, so you won’t complain.

And now your mind is on sex as you find yourself in the midst of another conversation that you’re excluded from. The banquet hall is fairly large and you think about you and your lover somewhere else in the venue, rutting on a birthday cake the size of a foosball table, not stopping even after you’re discovered. To hide your blush at this hypothetical making-out, you look down at your shoes – like your dress, also a gift, as is the bracelet around your wrist. But the perfume you’re wearing is yours, all yours, and though it’s definitely not as luxurious as what he might be used to, it’s the best you have. And the best you had that first night you’d ever slept with him, after seemingly trying in vain forever to persuade him to get in bed with you; and just at the verge of you giving up, he had made up his mind to seduce you. You wear it every night you anticipate sex, and as such it’s impossible for him to smell it and not get aroused.

You wonder if he’s noticed when some of the people you’re supposed to be engaging in mutual pleasantries with turn their heads to the door. Curious, you turn too to see a handsome young man enter, and though you expect him to be surrounded within minutes, you’re shocked to find that he’s just as nonexistent as you are. He has an affable air about him but no one approaches him, and no one even seems to notice him as he sets up permanent camp next to the buffet line. Somewhere you realize you’d like to be, because your stomach is rumbling.

Bruce has followed your line of vision, and an imperceptible frown has formed on his face. Surprised, you look up at him expectantly; and then he smiles as he leans down to kiss you. The warm pressure of him against you makes you wish you were anywhere else, because all you want to do is hold him close, not break it. It feels like a reward, a thank-you, but for what? He knows you only have eyes for him; you really can’t get much higher than a gorgeous billionaire, even if he’s a living angst generator every now and then. 

But you’re not the only one who must have felt that way. Because when you turn to see a stunning woman approach your apparent conversation group, a catlike smile on her face and her cat eyes on your lover, you know exactly who she must be. (And you’re immediately pissy. Cats – you have a tendency to want to keep your lover away from them, after all.) Therefore it comes as no real shock when she sidles up unannounced to say, “Bruce, it’s been so _long._ ”

His smile is polite, if not a little strained. “Adelise. Yes, time flies.”

You’re envious: well, of course she just _has_ to be French, and she has to have the unusually artistic name, to boot. Why do you never meet any Barbs or Jans at this thing?

“It’s just so very wonderful to see you again,” she says, which is at least one or two words too many, to you.

“I’m here, as well,” you add uselessly, as she continues to not even deem it necessary to acknowledge you.

“When was the last time we saw each other?” she goes on, and you’re a bit impressed that, despite you talking directly to her, she doesn’t so much as move her eyes an inch more towards you. “Perhaps after my performance – and our time in Nantes? Not that we ended up seeing much of it. But I can still remember the color of the wallpaper in the hotel room.”

Unnecessarily expository; you know she’s doing it because you’re there. You look on the bright side: that, at least, means that she at least realizes you exist, and you’re there. But she is naïve: she doesn’t know you’ve been here before. You’ve been to a couple of other events before with Bruce, when he needs a hanger-on to look less suspicious if he has to investigate, and you’re more than happy to look innocent as a lamb for his benefit. You’ve already seen the parade of ballerinas and socialites and art dealers who have an anecdote to share, and it doesn’t move you. Your lover is gorgeous, and he has a reputation he had to uphold. (For his benefit you call yourself an actress if anyone asks, because you accidentally wandered onto the scene of an indie film once, but you’re not sure anyone believes you)

More important things than her sexual history are on your mind: that buffet looked _really_ good. Your stomach is getting more impatient and you don’t want it to growl in front of Adelise. You turn to your lover with a bland smile on your face and say, “Excuse me.”

His expression is also one of unreadable social grace, but you can see in his eyes he doesn’t want you to leave – at least, not like this, before he’s even introduced you. He tries to grab you by the waist but you fear him going near your stomach will only make your problem worse, and with unintentional bite you say, “Don’t!”

Adelise glides in easily to the spot you vacate, but Bruce is looking over his shoulder at you as you move away, perhaps a little stung by your sudden departure. But you don’t dwell on it; he’s an adult, and he’s too mature to be put off by such things. And besides, it’s your birthday – you’ll be damned if you starve in front of a nigh-untouched buffet during it. You want food, and you want to sleep with your lover, and since you can only do one of those things right now you go for the accessible option.

The other invisible guest still has a plateful of food as you sample the goods, and he gives you a lopsided grin. “Looked too good to pass up, huh?”

He sounds like a normal person, his voice not quite like some old-time movie star’s, and you relax. “Um, hell yeah, buddy.”

“Is that Bruce Wayne you came in with?” His voice lowers a bit, brimming with admiration. “I think he’s really cool.”

“You and me both.” You’re proud of talking about your lover, even if it’s as though he’s a particularly well-groomed show dog. “Are you acquainted?”

“No,” he admits sheepishly, little anxious, barking laughter as he scratches the back of his neck. “I guess I’m – well, I don’t have many friends here. Cousin of the birthday girl, though, so an invitation was expected, right? But they’ve never had much respect for me. New money, sixty hours a week – stuff like that.”

You feel indignant for him, because you’re also not unused to long, hard workweeks, unlike some of the men and women here, who you’re sure get a check in the mail as long as they show up and look fabulous and disinterested. You want to call your lover over to introduce him, but when you look over, he still has Adelise clinging to him. But you notice he’s watching you when you look over at him, and you resist flashing a double-thumbs-up and an inane grin at how proud you are of making friends like a regular person.

“I’m Louis, by the way,” he adds; he says his name in the French way, but it is more tolerable than something like Adelise. “I would shake your hand, but I’m eating.”

“That’s all it takes to be friends with me.”

You lean over to try and reach the finger food in the back, and Louis lets out a noise of alarm; he tells you, “Your dress is a little unzipped in the back.”

“Oh, dammit. I swore I thought it was falling down.” You squirm, trying to reach back for it, but you can’t get to it. Your lover senses your alarm and looks over at you. He’s close enough for you to call out to him – you always get a little giddy, having him slowly zip up your dress while murmuring something in your ear – but you’re doing such a great job of not clinging to him all night. So to Louis you say, “Oh, can you help me with it, please?”

“Sure.” It’s a compelling enough reason for him to set down his food and use both hands, so as to not accidentally do something to mar your dress. It takes him a moment to get the zipper uncaught and draw it upwards, but when he does, it’s a no-nonsense, two-second affair. He gives you a friendly pat to let you know he’s finished and says, “Now you’re perfect.”

As you thank him, you look over to your lover, hoping that he’s pleased with your handling things. He’s watching you, too, but you’re taken aback by how cold and flat his gaze looks. He had been waiting for you to call to him, thus giving him a reason to escape Adelise and come to you, and perhaps it frustrated him that you asked another man for help in front of him. Certainly he couldn’t have seen it as anything but an innocent request, surely, unless through lover’s eyes he saw the lights dimmed far lower, Louis deliberately taking as long as possible while seductively zipping you up, one millimeter at a time. But it’s all so ridiculous – the thought of him being jealous over anything is a million miles from any thought you may have. There’s simply no comparison between Bruce Wayne and anyone else in the world, after all. Meanwhile, there are millions of yous stumbling around.

You and Louis shoot the shit for a little while before he has to leave, nearly choking when he realizes he’s forgotten his cousin’s present in his car. You peep over at your lover to find him finally bidding Adelise farewell, even though it looks to you that she could easily spend an hour or two with him. The thought of beautiful people vying for his attention used to bother you more – and of course, it hasn’t totally gone away – but you’re content knowing that, at the end of the night, you’ll be the one to get to press your face into his ridiculously luxurious sheets. Well – if only because he’s the one pressing your face into them as he takes you roughly from behind. A healthy glow stains your cheeks at the thought. What a birthday present that will be!

You sidle up to him and wrap your arms around one of his, wanting his attention, like some pet left alone for five minutes. “Did you talk about anything interesting with Adelise?”

“What?” He’s stifling a yawn. “Oh, yes. Did you know that nudes are in this season?”

“Makeup, or photographs?”

“I’m not sure. When you get to be as old as I am, you learn to just sort of tune things out.” He looks down at your pleased, sated expression. “I see you met a new friend.”

“Oh, yes. He’s very cute.”

You’re referring to his eager and sweet disposition, but perhaps Bruce takes it as a sign that you find him attractive, and he looks away. You don’t notice this assumption, only finding that he looks tired, stressed, perhaps with a headache, and since it must have been a whole ten minutes since you’ve been in contact with him, you are needy about touching him.

Without really thinking about other guests, you raise your hands and massage his temples for him. It’s a ritual you do when the two of you are alone – his stresses of saving the city usually outweigh your complaints of accidentally ripping your tights – and in truth you don’t even know the half of how much he enjoys it. Indeed, even now his eyes are threatening to close, and a soft sigh escapes him, like he can’t help it. When he looks at you, you notice that his pupils are dilated, just a little, and the corner of his mouth twitches as he takes one of your hands.

“You’re wearing your favorite perfume,” he notes, moving your hand so that he can press a fond kiss against your wrist. The wisdom of putting on perfume where you want to be kissed has decidedly come through. “Mine, too,” he adds, his mouth moving little by little down your wrist.

Your face is red; you wonder how far he’ll go if you don’t stop him, but then, you don’t want to stop him. Heat is pooling in your face, in your stomach, between your legs, and if you could tear your eyes away from his, you’d be looking for empty tables you could crawl and fuck him under. Only the aggravating boundaries of social graces make you say, “The others are watching.”

Indeed, it’s the first time all night that multiple people have looked at you, gawping at you as Bruce Wayne shamelessly covets this random nobody, but your lover himself doesn’t seem to mind. “Then they’ll faint when I do this.”

He leans down, and though you’re thrumming with anticipation for him to kiss you again, he shifts and instead kisses your cheek. It’s an innocent, harmless, even sweet gesture, one certainly more appropriate than devouring your wrist in public, yet for some reason it makes you even more embarrassed, and when he parts from you, you must look dumbstruck as you slap a hand where his mouth just left. You’re almost too shocked to say anything, and when you look around, several other guests snap their gazes away, bashful.

“B-Bruce!” you cry, feeling the warmth of him against your cheek even after he separates himself from you. You don’t even know why he did it; even if there was the infinitesimal possibility that he was jealous of your new friend, Louis isn’t even in the room. “What did you do that for?”

“You didn’t like it?” he asks innocently. It seems he has finally been destressed, toying with you like this. Well – you’ve known for a long time that if you’re good at anything, it’s making habitual brooder Bruce Wayne amused and destressed. 

“No! No! I didn’t mean that, I…” You can feel yourself only getting redder, knowing the game he’s playing, and you try to be indignant. “I know you’re not being jealous. You can point to anyone you want and have them, you know.”

“You give me too much credit,” he says, feigning ignorance. “Not everyone wants an old man like me.”

You scoff. “Well, I do. In fact, all I want right now is a good old sp—” You realize that perhaps you may be speaking too loud, and guiltily you lower your voice, saying, “ _spanking._ ”

You can still amuse Bruce Wayne, it seems, because he smiles, drawing you close again as the two of you move around the hall. “I suppose I can see about indulging you. It’s your birthday, after all.”

“That’s no indulgence. It’s no worse than when you like me calling you –”

“Not in public,” he says quickly, pressing you tighter against him, and when you feel his body against yours, you think about sex again.

“And anyway,” you go on, trying to not imagine him underneath or above or sideways against you, “if you have any negative feelings about Louis – oh, I can introduce you. He’s very nice.”

“There’s no need. I know him quite well.”

“You do?” You furrow your brow. “He didn’t seem to know you. Personally, I mean.”

“He doesn’t. I know _of_ him.”

“Ah, well,” you go on proudly, “it’s nice to meet someone else – like me, you know. A regular person.”

“Very regular,” he agrees, suppressing a smile.

“Just an average civilian.”

“Mhm.”

“Used to working hard, getting ignored, being…” You stop. Your lover is usually used to holding back his amusement, but he can never keep it up for long around you. “Oh, what is it?”

“He’s definitely a normal person,” Bruce agrees. “Why, only making 600k a year – I don’t know how he gets by. Certainly plebeian, by the standard of others here.”

“ _What?_ ” You’re dumbfounded, spinning around, trying to find Louis. Certainly you can’t be talking about the same person. “It can’t be – he wasn’t that much older than me… You must be thinking of someone else…”

“Louis Vermont, of Vermont Co.,” he prompts. “You’re not wrong. He’s been working hard at his business. But surely you’ve seen his last name plastered on just about everything in the cosmetics aisle. I see it every time I get something for you.”

“I’m sure I can’t afford anything in whatever aisle you’re in.” You slouch, depressed; you thought for sure you’d met a kindred frugal spirit.

“It’s all right,” he tells you, giving you a gentle pat on the ass when no one’s looking. “You’ll have to be strong. Must take a lot out of you, then, being my lover.”

Whatever blue feeling you may have had immediately evaporates when he says it. _My lover._ It’s the truth, of course, nothing you don’t know, but it still makes your chest crackle just hearing him say it. _My lover._ It really must be your birthday, him saying things like this. Usually you supply the mushy material. _My lover._ You wonder if you can get him to say it again.

Before you get a chance to try, an announcement goes out: the birthday girl is about to open her presents, so won’t you please gather around to watch? You’re not exactly interested in some grown-ass woman showing off her jewels: you have something else you’d much rather unwrap. So you take his arm, looking up at him expectantly. When he looks down, you whisper, “How much longer do we have to stay?”

He’s not concerned about staying here for hours, but he doesn’t get your intention yet, and tells you, “I’m not sure. Why?”

A sudden wave of impatience courses over you, so strong that have the urge to stamp your feet. You tug him down to your level and urgently tell him, _sotto voce_ this time, your most pressing birthday wish: “I want to _sleep_ with you.”

He straightens up in a hasty movement. He has the playboy reputation, of course, but to hear you say such things right out like that – he’s not made out of stone, and even he seems to be just a little tinged with red. “It’s not like we haven’t touched all day.”

“It’s my birthday,” you remind him, almost keening. You recall the game you would play with him behind closed doors, with you rubbing your cheek against his thigh, crawling after him on your hands and knees, begging him to just let you touch him, with his job being to deny you as long as he can physically manage. You feel the same way right now, struck by your wanting him, needing him, but it’s not quite acceptable to pull his clothes off here and now. Perhaps the smell of your perfume is getting to your head, too.

“Not that we have to, if you don’t want to, of course,” you assure him, which is mostly a lie, because you so very want him to do it. But perhaps he needs some convincing to abandon his social obligation. You pull him down by his tie and kiss him, just hard enough so that when you pull away, you need to reach up and brush some of your lipstick off of his mouth. And true, you may be stepped on by many, but when he gives you that hazy look – you really do feel like the only woman in the world. He takes your finger into his mouth, and you ask him, so very demurely, “Please?”

Bruce Wayne is the world’s greatest detective, etc. etc., and therefore it is not much of a challenge for him to find a room in the banquet hall where the two of you can be alone. The only place promising minimal disturbance, however, seems to be a cleaning closet.

You’re appalled when you look at it. “Bruce Wayne can’t be discovered in some janitor’s closet.”

“The goal is to not be discovered,” he reminds you, trying not to laugh at your round-eyed gaze of horror. “And that doesn’t matter now,” he insists, curling your hair behind your ear in a move so carefully honed it could have been from a movie. When he’s finished he holds your cheek in his hand, the callouses rough against your cheek but the touch gentle as he tells you, “I’m yours.”

 _He’s doing it on purpose,_ you tell yourself as your insides go all melty at the sound of him acknowledging your relationship in that husky voice. _It’s intentional. He absolutely knows exactly what he’s doing. Down to the word._ But the knowledge that he knows exactly how to tweak you and manipulate your little romantic sensibilities does little to prevent you from succumbing to it, as you fist his perfectly nice shirt in your hands and drag him down for a kiss on the nearest available flat surface. Perhaps it doesn’t exactly match the fantasy of dry humping on a gigantic cake, but you can’t complain, because against fantasy – yes, the feeling of the warmth of his body, the strength of his arms as he holds you, the silky feeling of his hair underneath your fingers, the pressure of his tongue against yours… They simply exceed imagination.

You know that both of your outfits are too expensive to rip apart, so you can’t help but whine a little as you pull at his belt, trying to get his pants down. He lets you attempt the task as he reaches back to unzip your dress, oh, so nice and slow, equal parts teasing you and making sure he doesn’t rip what he just bought you. He does double work, tugging it down while also pulling your skirt up, and you try to wriggle out of your underwear with one hand while continuing your hard work on his belt with your other. 

You have often felt as though you’re in a period of life when your breasts will never look or feel better, so you thoroughly appreciate it when he envelops them completely with his hands, moving slowly down your body, down your stomach, until he catches you between your legs and finds you already drenched, and you can see that he’s wondering how long you’ve kept it to yourself. When he pushes his fingers inside of you, you let out a little noise of relief, and you slap your hand over your mouth even though you’re sure no one could be around. Bruce won’t accept that, though, and with a soft laugh he scissors his fingers in and out of you, curling them against you, stimulating the spot that some argue doesn’t exist. You could argue back, your sole evidence the way your legs jerk and kick and the obscene noises that threaten to spill out from you, even with your muzzle. By the time he works your clit you’re about ready to implode, your inner muscles desperately clamping down on his fingers, your cunt aching with the need to be filled. 

But he doesn’t give you that just yet; no, he wants to fucking torture you, on your _birthday,_ and you can’t even plead with him about it, because you have to make sure you’re not heard. He has your hands pinned above your head on the desk, and you can feel how hard he is against you, but he doesn’t enter you just yet. Absolute torture, oh, you’re fighting weakly against him but he’s just so much stronger than you, won’t let you win, because he’s making up for all the little tortures you put him through during the evening. Your wayward glances, another man’s hands on you, the way you’d told him _don’t._

It’s true: in these little dark, private spaces, things are simpler. He’s not Bruce Wayne, and you’re not nobody; he’s not rich and you’re not cheap; he’s not out of your league and you’re not pathetic. He’s your lover, and he belongs to you, even though you still have trouble seeing how you managed to get there in the first place. But there _is_ one difference: here, he is your boss, dominant. Over you and above you in a delicious way. And you let him do it – no, more than that, you want him to do it, because you fucking love it. Because for once you don’t have to stress, because he’s in control, and he can use you as his living stress ball, a situation he finally has complete control over.

But, yes, he intends to torture you first. He tells you to say something he already knows: he says, “Tell me you want me.”

“Bruce,” you squeak, like a toy being stepped on. You can’t possibly resist, can’t deny him this: you need him too badly. You want to scratch the itch, relieve yourself of the ache you’ve been feeling all night. “I want you.”

Usually you put some sort of struggle up at first, just for your own pride, and to see you already being putty in his hands makes the corner of his mouth twitch up. He presses a little more against you, but he still isn’t inside of you yet, and you feel like you’ll suffer a different kind of little death before it even starts. “Tell me that you need me.”

“I _need_ you,” you say, half a sob. You feel like you’re on fire, from your face all the way down to your cunt, the flames running through your bloodstream, unrelenting. Your voice is so strained that he almost can’t hear you when you add, “ _Please._ ”

“Almost,” he promises, though he’s made lots of promises in this position that has led to your continued torture, you strapped down with a vibrator against you, unable to move, as he promises to be _right back_ , when he feels like being a kinky bastard. “Tell me that you love it.”

But your mind’s gone as you feel him start to enter you; already you’re in ecstasy, teleported far away from the janitor’s closet and the banquet hall and Gotham itself. Mixed up in the head, you tell him in a blissful voice of sugar and honey, “I _love_ you.”

He pauses for a moment, caught off-guard; usually this is the sort of thing you say later, when he gets you off, when he’s certain you’re not thinking straight. Right now your head may not be totally clear, the look on your face suggesting you’re already approaching the gates of heaven, but you say it so earnestly, so ecstatically, that he has to believe you really mean it. And maybe he doesn’t want to believe that, doesn’t want to set you up for something awful happening in the future, but here, in these private and intimate spaces, he can be selfish for just a moment, just a brief gasp of time.

You don’t realize what you’ve said, only approximating through half-closed and hazy eyes that you’ve said the right thing, because he looks pleased, and thus you’ve done your job right. In the eyes of others – certainly the eyes of everyone tonight – Bruce Wayne is king, and though you’re sure you’re not anybody’s queen (even you would have to dejectedly concede such a position to someone like Diana Prince), you figure that you’re, at the very least, his court jester. But not now, no, not when he’s touching you like this, so close to you, overwhelming you without even fucking being inside of you yet. You feel like you belong with him. To him, of course.

For a brief and treacherous moment that feels like an hour, he hesitates, and you nearly burst into tears at the wait; so when he pushes inside of you without warning, you audibly gasp, unable this time to cover your mouth as he restrains you. But that also seems to please him – or at the very least, amuse him again – and he moves the hand that’s restraining you. You assume he’ll cover your mouth but instead it’s your neck he holds, not choking you, not even quite squeezing, just – letting you know. As if you need reminding.

With a whimper, you grab his wrist, wanting him to keep his grip there, waiting for him to get deeper inside of you. When he does, he doesn’t tease you – it really must be your birthday. He fills you from the first thrust, wanting to feel the pressure and warmth that his fingers felt moments before, and to be sure, your body doesn’t want to let him go. Your cunt presses down on him tightly, greedily, and even if he had it in mind to pull out of you to torture you, he may not have been able to physically manage it.

“Bruce,” is all the linguistic prowess your mind can rally together at that moment. Your thighs twitch against him, your eyes unfocused. You try to think if there’s something else you can say besides the little involuntary noises every time he pushes in, pulls out. Giving up, you say again, softer, lower, “ _Bruce._ ”

After nights of spending time with the worst people in Gotham, it’s a relief to experience the softer things in life. With a smirk, he reminds you, “It’ll get us caught.”

It should make you self-conscious, but instead he feels you tighten around him, the prospect of someone hearing you a little private pleasure. Because even when you try to stay quiet, try to remember that anyone could be walking around outside the door, his thrusts get even harder, even deeper, until you can’t help but whimper again. Taking pity on you, he releases your throat and bends down to kiss you, capturing every indulgent moan and purr that you make. He pulls away, but you don’t quite, your mouth trailing across his cheek, his jawline, down to his neck and exposed throat. Your hands are on a journey of their own, and every time you grab a part of him it’s like an act of worship, reminding him of how badly you’d wanted him, thanking him for indulging you, rewarding him for letting go with you.

To you it’s perfect, too perfect to be true, and only when you try to clear your mind a little do you realize that the act isn’t completely discreet. The table he’s fucking you on is now slamming into the adjacent wall, the rhythmic pounding making it not quite impossible to guess what was going on. You want to warn him, but it’s a hard thing to give a fuck about when you can feel him getting harder inside of you, getting thicker. He’s getting close and you know it, and you can’t possibly make him stop, couldn’t even hope to pause for just a second, the ecstasy mounting in not just you but him. If they’re going to hear you, so what? You might as well make it definite, then, maybe start making such obscene noises that they might think you’re filming porn in a janitor’s closet, and then –

But your lover can be responsible about such things, even if he’s so deep inside of you that there seems to be no way he could ever separate himself from you. Though he manages just long enough, and as your mind spins, your body does also, and before you know it, you’ve gone from horizontal to vertical. He has gone from fucking you on a table to fucking you against the wall. Namely, the wall right beside the door, a warning that any sound you make may lead to your discovery. But he has still taken care of you, making sure such a position is manageable when he already towers over you, even if it means you’re pressed up against the wall, your cheek against the cool surface as he fits inside of you once more. The filthiness of the room contrasted with the luxury of your outfit is starting to get to you, and you find yourself even more strangely excited, to be fucked against a dirty wall in your best clothes, and by the richest man in Gotham, no less. And to think that, a long time ago, you thought that you’d peak at missionary with a 7/10.

His pace is rougher now, less formal, more primal. You can feel his teeth sink into the soft flesh of your shoulder, and you know he’ll be leaving marks. Right now you feel that he can do anything he wants, anything, oh, you’ll go to work with love bites up and down your neck. You’ve worn them countless times, on your breasts and waist and inside your thighs, but you want them to see this time, to know. Before he has a chance to pull away, you reach back and fist his soft hair in your hands, pressing him to you, making sure he doesn’t leave until the job is done. The sensation sets you adrift into a plane where simply nobody exists except the two of you, his chest pressed against your back, his hand underneath your dress. No – nobody, nobody else.

And as if summoned, as you realize there’s a world beyond the fucking noises the two of you are making, you can hear the sound of heels clicking down the hallway and two women talking. You try to find enough sensibility to cover your mouth, your whole body shaking as he fucks you relentlessly, shamelessly. If he knows that there’s someone right outside, he doesn’t care, but it’s impossible for him to miss when you hear someone plaintively ask, “Have you seen Bruce anywhere?”

You recognize the voice, and your grip on his hair tightens. It’s Adelise, of course, because who else is looking for your lover at a time like this? You let out a soft growl and Bruce raises his head; when he sees you looking back at him he can’t help but sink a little deeper inside of you, and you swear you can feel him pulse as he moves his hand back up to cup your throat. Raw, smug pride wells up inside of you, a flame stoked in your belly, reminding you that, no matter how anyone treated you, however superior you think other women could be – no, no, at this moment, nobody else gets to be in this position but you. 

And it’s a position you’re quite enjoying, too. Thoughts of the rest of the world melt away once more as Adelise fades into the distance, figuratively and literally, and you have to bite your lip to stop a stream of profanity from cascading forth as you can feel him hit a good, sweet spot inside of you. The act itself, knowing that you shouldn’t be doing what you’re doing, not here, not now, is kindling for the warmth in your stomach, and perhaps that itself is enough to get you off.

And get you off it does. Caught off-guard, you’re unable to prevent a soft cry from escaping you, your legs jerking as the orgasm washes over you, your face in all sorts of worshipful expressions as a breathless laugh slips from your mouth. Again you say “ _Bruce,_ ” but there’s no way he could possibly reprimand you when you’re like this, falling apart in his arms, saying his name like _that._ You swear you can see the gates of Heaven, but it’s not St. Peter’s voice you hear: no, it’s a reward, the sound of Bruce saying your name against your ear, strained and husky. The feeling of your orgasm while he’s still inside of you is unbearable, and it’s impossible to stop himself from blowing past his own point of no return.

During the day, Bruce Wayne is buried under responsibility not unlike the entombment of Pompeii, and you know it’s impossible to totally save him from it, no matter how much you wish you could. But now, here, you’re releasing him from it all for just a moment, and he has nothing to do but come inside of you, fitted as deep as your body will allow him, his body pressing you against the wall. His face is buried in your hair to muffle his groan of relief, but you can still hear it, oh, you fucking relish the sound of it, relish the feeling of his fingers digging into your skin as he grips you tightly, holds you in place. Because you’re his, and _you_ get to do this with him. _To_ him.

You can feel his body relax against you, but his hold on you doesn’t loosen quite yet. You’re floating in a distant paradise and you would be more than happy to let him stay inside of you forever, but gravity exists, and you know that it’ll catch up to you eventually. But for a moment you have to catch your breath, and so does he, his body trembling imperceptibly against yours as you feel him twitch as he’s seated inside of you.

You hear yourself thanking him, devotedly, stupidly, over and over again even as you slide a little bit to the floor and wait as he cleans you up. It’s a cleaning closet; you already have the inane, indefatigable smile typical of orgasm recipients, so it’s not hard for you to laugh at the coincidence. 

“Bruce,” you say reverently, “you’re _perfect._ ”

Usually he objects to you saying it, or at least gets a little troubled, but it’s your birthday, and he lets you; and he must be in an elevated mood, too, because the corner of his mouth twitches. Well – he’s just fucked you silly, after all, and you can be forgiven for saying such things. And if he’s telling the truth, well… You’re his favorite, anyway, so he’ll let you get away with it. Favorite what? Everything, maybe.

You help each other replace and adjust your pawed-apart clothes, fix your love-tousled hair, making it look not quite so obvious that you’ve been up to no good. As you tug up your dress, you realize only now that your dress doesn’t quite cover the love bites he’s just given you. And as you come down from your orgasm, you perhaps rethink the idea that you should be walking around with bite marks all over you. Oh – certainly _you_ don’t mind it, but this is Bruce Wayne, and though he has the reputation of being a playboy, you still don’t want any sort of potentially embarrassing coverage to surface. With some expert finagling, you manage to adjust your straps to cover the marks, and though you look somewhat asymmetrical, you know that no one has really noticed you all night and you’re sure this won’t change anything.

You’ve also lost most of your lipstick, but you don’t yet replace it, instead wrapping him up in your arms once more, your mouth a warm and welcome pressure against his. When you pull away and bury your head into his neck, you say regretfully, “I guess this means we can’t leave early to fuck, if we’ve already done it.”

“I’d say that’s on you,” he reminds you, equally regretful to have to pull the hem of your dress down instead of up this time. “Now, we’d better go back. Adelise is looking for me.”

You swat at him, but he’s faster than you, easily swatting your ass first. You can’t be too annoyed; you have seen Bruce Wayne up all night, unable to sleep, staring out the window and only returning to bed at your touch and insistence, and you much prefer this Bruce Wayne, one who has been fucked into easy relaxation and who will live up to his false playboy image by swatting your ass in public. With a grumble, you retrieve your shoes, which have been kicked off haphazardly and lay in various and illogical places around the room. As you scoop to turn one over, you’re reminded of your ritual when you’re feeling romantic after a night out. You sit on the counter of his home and let one of your heels drop to the ground, and that’s enough to let him know; within minutes, he’s inside of you. You remember what he’s just told you: _That’s on you._ It seems you really can seduce Bruce Wayne, when you put your mind to it. Mentally, you move your position on the board from court jester to queen.

The two of your return to the festivities. At this point you’re wearing his cologne, and he’s wearing your perfume, a consequence of having devoured each other for so long. You’re wondering if anyone will notice when you hear your name being called, and you turn to see Louis approaching you, an easygoing grin on his face.

“I was wondering where you were,” he tells you. “I didn’t see you, when she was opening all those gifts.”

You find yourself glad that it was Adelise and not Louis you heard, asking for you, because you’re not certain you would have been able to walk out of the janitor’s closet after that. You tell him with a blissful smile that “I had some pressing matters to attend to.”

“Really?” He looks concerned. “Nothing too bad, right?”

“It all ended perfectly,” you assure him. Testing your luck with your lover at your side, you say, “When you’re up against a wall, getting hammered, sometimes you just have to take the hard things as they come and find a happy ending at the end of it.”

“Awesome,” he says, even if he doesn’t seem to quite understand what harrowing experience could have occurred in such a relatively short frame of mind, and when he’s not looking, you feel Bruce’s grip tighten at your waist. (Well – if you’re lucky, you can get away with it. It’s not like you yelled out to the world that _I just fucked Bruce Wayne,_ right?)

“Oh!” Something’s occurred to you. “I haven’t introduced you, right?” You gesture dramatically to your lover, as if, again, he’s a particularly handsome show dog. “Bruce Wayne.”

“I know,” Louis interjects, boyishly, excitedly. With a sheepish laugh he extends his hand. “I really admire you – sir – Mr. Wayne – ”

Your lover takes his hand, though not without a little force, enough to make your friend’s arm spasm. You would have objected, but after your orgasm, you’re so laid-back that you could have been taken hostage and wouldn’t have dropped your dopey expression. With a bland smile, Bruce says, “It’s my pleasure, son.”

“It’s mine! I always wanted to meet you!” Louis insists, and then, his eyes wide, continues: “But not that I – was trying to get close to your, erm, girlfriend – just to know you… No, she’s very funny, and very kind…” He doesn’t understand why Bruce does not seem to be more pleased at these compliments, so he changes gears to kindness more universally flattering. “And really attractive, sir… Very beautiful, I mean, just jaw-dropping… Really, quite a stunner. But – not that it’s all, I mean. We hit it off. Very wonderful.”

Finally, Bruce smiles again, though you don’t know why. “Louis, I’d love to continue this conversation in a minute. Will you excuse me? For just a moment?”

You don’t understand why, and are, again, feeling too doped up to object, but neither does Louis, who eagerly exclaims, “Absolutely no problem. Anytime. Anywhere, too. Absolutely. Go ahead.”

“Thank you.” Bruce detaches himself from you and moves behind you, but not without telling you carefully, “Oh, sweetheart – your dress isn’t straight. Let me fix it for you.”

You don’t realize until too late what his plan is; no, you could have never believed that Bruce Wayne could be petty at all, and certainly not this sort of petty. He readjusts your carefully-placed straps so that Louis and God and everybody can see the fresh love bites that definitely were not there thirty minutes ago – a sort of physical proclamation that anyone in the world may consider you attractive, or jaw-dropping, or quite a stunner, but you belong to him, and he’s the one who gets to sink his teeth into you, literally.

Louis was watching this adjustment curiously, and his jaw drops a little when he sees what Bruce has uncovered. As he stammers, embarrassed and not quite sure what to say, a few other people look over at you, and they too finally see you, just in time to see what your lover has done to you.

Bruce is about ten feet away from you by the time you recalibrate your mind to its old standards. No – you can’t let him get away with this, can’t let him win _all_ the time. Perhaps you don’t have the exact same level of attitude as the lover he’s used to, but you have your moments. Yes, he’s ten feet away right now – and so when you turn to where he’s departing, you have to raise your voice a little, just a little, your lashes lowered demurely and your voice somehow both solemn and coy as you call out, “Thank you, daddy.”

The immediate area goes silent and Bruce stops dead in his tracks at the name you’re not supposed to call him in public. But in your defense, he shouldn’t reveal your love bites in public, either.

The faces of those who have heard are either red or white, and you’re certain that, if they didn’t know you existed before, they know very well right now. But you’re not looking at them, nor are you looking at Louis, who you are sure has lost the power of coherent speech. Instead, you’re looking at your lover, who’s giving you a certain expression. It’s a look that tells you that he’ll have to change his mind about staying for longer, that you’re in serious trouble now and he’ll have to take you home early and give you a proper punishment for breaking a rule. Yes – you’re in trouble, and he might very well put you over his knee or across his lap when he gets you home.

You keep your smile to yourself, not wanting anyone to see the canary feathers that were certainly sticking out. Oh, yes, you’re going to be punished. And one thing is for certain: _This birthday just keeps getting better and better._


End file.
